Divine Rivals, page 11
“Two in one day,” Helena remarked, at last turning her face to Iris. “Whatever have they put in the water?”
Iris wasn’t sure what she implied. But she held still as Helena walked around her desk to scrutinize her.
“Why do you want to be a correspondent, Miss…?”
“Iris. Iris Winnow.”
“Miss Iris Winnow,” Helena said, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette. “Why are you here?”
Iris shifted her weight, ignoring the pain in her wrists. “Because my brother is fighting.”
“Mm. That’s not a good enough answer for me to send you, kid. Do you have any idea how difficult it’ll be as a correspondent? Why should I send an innocent thing like you to see and digest and report such terrible things?”
A bead of sweat trickled down Iris’s spine. “People in Oath think they’re safe. They think that because the war is far away, it will never reach us here. But I believe it will come to the city one day, sooner than later, and when it does … there will be a lot of people unprepared. Your choice to report the news on the war front is going to help change that.”
Helena was staring up at her, and a lopsided smile crept over her lips. “You still didn’t answer why I should send you, Iris Winnow.”
“Because I want to write about things that matter. I want my words to be like a line, cast out into the darkness.”
“That’s rather poetic of you,” Helena said, eyes narrow. “What’s your previous experience?”
“I worked three months at the Oath Gazette,” Iris replied, belatedly hoping that wouldn’t dampen her chances.
“You worked for good ole Autry, did you? My, now that’s a surprise.” Helena chuckled, crushing her cigarette into an ashtray. “Why’d you leave such a splendid opportunity? Did he fire you for double spacing?”
“I resigned.”
“I like you more already,” Helena said. “When can you start?”
“Immediately,” Iris replied.
Helena glanced at Iris’s valise and her typewriter case. “You came prepared, didn’t you? I like that in a person. Come, follow me.” She walked out the door, and Iris had to scramble to catch up with her, weaving through the chaos again.
They ascended the stairs, leaving behind the chill of the basement for a small room on one of the upper floors. It was well lit and clean, with a table and two chairs.
“Have a seat, Iris,” Helena said. “And fill this out for me. I’ll be back in a moment.” She set down a waiver and a pen before striding away, leaving Iris alone.
Iris glanced over it. The waiver was filled with things like I agree to not hold the Inkridden Tribune responsible for anything which may befall me, including but not limited to: dismemberment, sickness, perforated and ruined organs, starvation, long-lasting disease of any kind, broken bones, and even death. I will take full responsibility for whatever happens to me—bodily and mentally and emotionally—while I am on the campaign to report.
She read through the fine print; she signed where applicable, and she didn’t think twice about it. But Forest came to mind. She wondered how many scars the war had given him.
“Here we go,” Helena said, returning with an armload of supplies. She set down what looked to be a folded uniform and a narrow leather bag with a thick strap, to be carried across one’s back. “Your jumpsuit. There’s another one in the bag, for when you need to do laundry. Also socks, boots, menstrual supplies. I can’t stress enough how vital it is you wear the jumpsuit, because of this little thing right here…” She snapped the jumpsuit so it would unfold. It was gray and plain, with buttons up the front. But Helena pointed to a white badge stitched with the words INKRIDDEN TRIBUNE PRESS, just over the right breast pocket. “If you get into a hairy situation—which gods willing you won’t but we must prepare for anything—this proclaims you are neutral in the war—that you are only reporting what you see and should not be perceived as a threat. You understand?”
“Yes,” Iris said, but her mind was whirling.
“Food rations are also in the bag,” Helena said, tossing the jumpsuit onto the table again. “In case you need them, but you’ll be assigned to a house, which will feed you and give you a safe place to sleep. Now, may I look at your typewriter?”
Iris unlatched the locks and lifted the lid to the case. And she didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t for Helena to go wide-eyed and let out a whistle.
“This is your typewriter?” she asked, inclining her head so her fringe would shift out of her eyes.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was my grandmother’s.”
“May I touch it?”
Iris nodded, puzzled. But she watched as Helena reverently traced the lines of her old typewriter. Touching the keys, the carriage return, the roller knob. She let out another disbelieving whistle.
“An Alouette! Do you even know what you have here, kid?”
Iris held her tongue, uncertain how to answer.
“This typewriter is a very rare beast,” Helena said, leaning closer to admire it. “Only three were made just like it. Haven’t you heard the old story?”
“No.”
“Then I should tell you, so you know exactly how precious this relic is. Decades ago, there was a rich man in the city named Richard Stone. He was a widower and had only one daughter, who was his pride and joy. Her name was Alouette, and she loved to write. Well, she fell sick with tuberculosis when she was only fifteen. Because of that, her two dearest friends could no longer visit her. Alouette was despondent. And Mr. Stone was driven to find a way for his daughter to communicate with her chums, and he found an old, cranky inventor who specialized in typewriters. Mr. Stone went into debt to allow three to be uniquely assembled. The legends claim the typewriters were constructed in a magical house on a magical street of Oath by a man with a magical monocle that could discern magical bonds—who soon vanished, by the way. But regardless … the typewriters were named after Alouette. She was given one, of course. And then her father gifted the other two to her friends. They sent letters and stories and poetry to each other for a full year, up until the night Alouette passed away. Shortly after that, Mr. Stone donated her typewriter to the museum, to be displayed with a few of her letters.”
“And the other two typewriters?” Iris asked quietly.
Helena cocked her brow. “They remained with her two friends, of course.” She lifted the typewriter and found the silver engraving. The one that Iris had spent years tracing and wondering about. “You said this belonged to your nan, correct? And were her initials by any chance D.E.W.?”
“They were,” Iris said.
Daisy Elizabeth Winnow had been a reserved woman, but she had often told Iris stories her of childhood. The saga of her typewriter, however, had never been shared, and Iris was struck by the whimsy of it, imagining her nan being friends with two other girls. How the three of them had written to each other, through their separation and sadness and joy.
“It makes you wonder where the third one is, doesn’t it?” Helena said, carefully setting the typewriter back down. “Or should I say, the second one, since this is technically the third.”
Iris had an inkling. She said nothing, but her mind wandered to the letters that were hiding in her bag. Her heart quickened as she thought, It isn’t the wardrobes connecting us. It’s our typewriters.
“So, Iris,” Helena said. “I have to ask this: are you sure you want to take your nan’s typewriter to war? Because you could sell it to the museum. They would probably pay you a fortune and be downright giddy at the opportunity, displaying it with The First Alouette.”
“I’m not selling it,” Iris replied curtly. “And it goes wherever I go.”
“I figured you’d say that,” Helena replied. “But I digress. This is how your correspondence will work: you’ll take the next train out of Oath, which leaves in half an hour. So we don’t have much time. You’re going to Avalon Bluff, a town six hundred kilometers west of here, close to the war front. Keep in mind you’ll be under a new chancellor and their jurisdiction, and that the laws you once knew in Oath and the Eastern Borough might not apply in the west. Things also change drastically in war, so pay close attention to the rules of daily life, so you remain safe.
“Your contact is Marisol Torres. She runs a bed and breakfast, and she’ll give you food and lodgings while you work. She doesn’t know you’re coming, but mention my name and she’ll take good care of you.
“The train runs through Avalon every sixth day. I expect you to have your reports typed, edited, and ready for me to publish. I want facts and I want stories. It’s the only way I’ll be able to get around the chancellor’s restriction on how much I can publish about the war—he can’t deny us a soldier’s story every now and then, nor the facts, all right? So make sure you cite your stuff so he can’t claim it’s propaganda. You’ll then slip and seal your typed articles in the brown classified envelopes that you’ll find in your bag, and you’ll hand them directly to the conductor. Supplies will also come in on the train, so if you need something, let me know. Do you understand everything I’ve told you, Iris?”
“Yes Ms. Hammond,” Iris said. But her mouth was dry, her palms sweaty.
Was she really doing this?
“Good,” Helena said. “Now, get dressed. You can’t take your valise, only the approved leather bag and your typewriter. Meet me out front on the pavement in five minutes.” She began to step out the door but tarried on the threshold. “Oh, what name are you writing under?”
Iris paused, uncertain. At the Oath Gazette, her articles had been published under Iris Winnow. She wondered if she should add her middle initial, like Roman did, but thought it sounded a bit pretentious. Roman Cocky Kitt.
As soon as she thought of him, her chest ached. The feeling surprised her because it was sharp and undeniable.
I miss him.
She missed irritating him by rearranging his desk. She missed stealing glances at his horribly handsome face, the rare sight of his smile and the fleeting sound of his laughter. She missed striking up banter with him, even if it was most often to see who could outsnark whom.
“Iris?” Helena prompted.
Iris shivered. That bewitching moment of longing for him faded as she set her resolve. She was about to go to the war front and she didn’t have time to wallow in … whatever these feelings were.
“Iris Winnow is fine,” she said, reaching for the jumpsuit.
“Just ‘fine’?” Helena looked pensive for a second, her mouth twisting. And then she winked at Iris and said, “I bet I can come up with something better.”
She slipped out the door before Iris could reply.
{16}
Attie
Six hundred kilometers feel like an eternity when you’re waiting for the unexpected. An eternity made of golden fields and pine forests and mountains that look blue in the distance. An eternity made of things you’ve never seen, air you’ve never tasted, and a train that rocks and clatters like guilt.
I wonder if this is how it feels to be immortal. You’re moving, but not really. You’re existing, but time seems thin, flowing like a current through your fingers.
I try to close my eyes and rest, but I’m too tempted to watch the world pass by my window. A world that seems endless and sprawling. A world that makes me feel small and insignificant in the face of its wildness. And then that sense of distance tightens my chest as if my bones can feel these six hundred kilometers—I’m leaving the only home I’ve ever known—and I withdraw his letters from my bag, and I reread them. Sometimes I regret leaving his last letter on the floor. Sometimes I’m relieved that I did, because I don’t think I’d be sitting here, pressing westward with nothing more than my courage, into a cloud of dust if I hadn’t.
Sometimes I wonder what he looks like and if I’ll ever write to him again.
Sometimes I—
The train lurched.
Iris stopped writing, glancing out the window. She watched as the train rumbled slower and slower, eventually coming to a complete, smoke-hissing stop. They were in the middle of a field in Central Borough. No towns or buildings were in sight.
Had they broken down?
She set her notepad aside, rising to peek out of the compartment. Most of the passengers had already disembarked at the previous stops. But farther down the corridor, Iris caught sight of another girl, speaking to one of the staff.
“We’ll pick up speed once the sun sets, miss,” the crew member said. “In about half an hour or so. Please, help yourself to a cup of tea in the meantime.”
Iris ducked back into her compartment. They had purposefully stopped, and she wondered why they had to wait for darkness to continue. She was thinking about gathering her bags and seeking out the girl she had seen when a tap sounded on the sliding door.
“Is this seat taken?”
Iris glanced up, surprised to see the girl. She had brown skin and curly black hair, and she held a typewriter case in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. She was wearing the same drab jumpsuit as Iris, with the white INKRIDDEN TRIBUNE PRESS badge over her heart, but she somehow made the garb look far more fashionable, with a belt cinched at her waist and the pants cuffed at her ankles, exposing red striped socks and dark boots. A pair of binoculars hung from her neck and a leather bag was slung over her shoulder.
Another war correspondent.
“No,” Iris said with a smile. “It’s yours if you want it.”
The girl stepped into the compartment, nudging the door closed behind her. She set down her typewriter, then dropped her leather bag with a groan, taking the seat directly across from Iris’s. She closed her eyes and took a sip of the tea, only to promptly cough, her nose crinkling.
“Tastes like burnt rubber,” she said, and proceeded to open the window, dumping out the tea.
“Do you know why we’ve stopped?” Iris asked.
Her newfound companion shut the window, her attention drifting back to Iris. “I’m not exactly sure. The crew seemed hesitant to say anything, but I think it has to do with bombs.”
“Bombs?”
“Mm. I think we’ve reached the boundary for Western Borough, and beyond it is an active zone, where the effects of the war can be felt. I don’t know why, but they made it sound like it’s safer for the train to travel by night from here on out.” The girl crossed her legs at the ankles, studying Iris with an attentive eye. “I didn’t realize I’d have a companion on this trip.”
“I think I arrived at Inkridden Tribune right after you left,” Iris said, still thinking about bombs.
“Helena ask you a hundred questions?”
“Yes. Thought she wasn’t going to hire me.”
“Oh, she’d have hired you,” the girl said. “Even if you had arrived looking like you’d just danced at a club. Rumor has it they’re desperate for correspondents. I’m Thea Attwood, by the way. But everyone calls me Attie.”
“Iris Winnow. But most people call me by my last name.”
“Then I’ll call you by your first,” said Attie. “So, Iris. Why are you doing this?”
Iris grimaced. She wasn’t sure how much she wanted to reveal about her tragic past yet, so she settled for a simple “There’s nothing for me in Oath. I needed a change. You?”
“Well, someone I once respected told me that I didn’t have it in me to become published. My writing ‘lacked originality and conviction,’ he said.” Attie snorted, as if those words still stung. “So I thought, what better way to prove myself? What could be a better teacher than having the constant threat of death, dismemberment, and whatever else Inkridden Tribune said in that waiver of theirs to sharpen your words? Regardless, I don’t like attempting things that I think I’ll fail at, so I have no choice but to write superb pieces and live to see them published, to my old professor’s chagrin. In fact, I paid for him have a subscription, so the Inkridden Tribune will start showing up on his doorstep, and he’ll see my name in print and eat his words.”
“A fitting penance,” Iris said, amused. “But I hope you realize that you didn’t have to sign up to write about war to prove yourself to anyone, Attie.”
“I do, but where’s the sense of adventure in that? Living the same careful and monotonous routine, day in and day out?” Attie smiled, dimples flirting in her cheeks. The next words she said Iris felt in her chest, resounding like a second heartbeat. Words that were destined to bind them together as friends. “I don’t want to wake up when I’m seventy-four only to realize I haven’t lived.”
{17}
Three Sirens
By the time the train chugged into the small station of Avalon Bluff, Iris and Attie were the only two passengers remaining, and it was half past ten o’clock at night. The moon hung like a fingernail, and the stars burned brighter than Iris had ever seen, as if they had fallen closer to earth. She gathered her things and followed Attie onto the platform, her legs sore from sitting most of the day, and drew a deep breath.
Avalon Bluff tasted like hay and meadow grass and chimney smoke and mud.
The girls walked through the abandoned station, which soon spilled them onto a dirt road. Helena had given them instructions on how to locate their lodgings: Marisol’s B and B was on High Street, just through the station, third house on the left, with a green door that looked like it once belonged in a castle. Attie and Iris would need to go directly there while being wary of their surroundings, prepared to take shelter at any moment.
“I take it this is High Street?” Attie asked.
It was dark, but Iris squinted, studying the town that lay before them. The houses were old, two-storied and built from stone. A few even had thatched roofs and mullioned windows, as if they were constructed centuries ago. Fences were made of stacked rocks covered in moss, and it looked like there were a few gardens, but it was hard to discern things by the light of the moon.
There were no streetlamps to guide them along. Most houses were gloomy and cloaked in shadows, as if they were fueled by candlelight rather than electricity.
